He took a step toward the girl when he noticed an Enforcer approaching her. His heart sank when the officer walked toward her, gun held at the ready. So much for another villain…
He walked right past her.
Claymore wasn’t sure he saw that correctly. The Enforcer just moved right beside her, like the girl wasn’t there or even making any noise. Before he could reconcile that, the officer swiftly aimed at Claymore, then lowered his weapon. “Sorry, sir. It’s hard to see in these helmets sometimes.” He swept his head around, stared directly at the girl, and then turned back to Claymore before putting his hand up to where his ear would be. “Third floor gantry secure. Awaiting orders to continue assault.” The Enforcer turned and continued down the catwalk.
Blinking his eyes, Claymore approached the intersection of his path and the other walkway. He looked at the Enforcer, now looking down the barrel of his bullpup rifle over the railing and toward the ground floor. Claymore’s eyes quickly found their way back to the girl, still peering into the sleep chamber as the glass rapidly unfogged, revealing a twitching man in a dirty white t-shirt and Fort-issued orange inmate pants.
“What’s going on here?” Claymore asked, the girl snapping toward the sound of his voice. “Why didn’t he see what you’re doing?”
“You can see me?” she asked, her voice wavering.
He took a dangerous, fast step toward her. She darted backward to maintain the distance. “I have no patience for villainous trickery.” The girl’s face was nothing like Julia’s, but it was a good placeholder for the enmity he still felt in his gut. “Your use of Bestowed abilities…”
“Please, I just want to see my father…” she begged, further inciting him. He stepped toward her, and she stepped backward.
“… Constitute a threat to inmate pacification and shall result…”
“Don’t do this…” her face was terrified, which made him feel all the more powerful.
“… In punishment,” he hissed as his free hand shot out and snagged her wrist.
“No!”
He had no idea what his intention was after scaring her. His mind was flooded with all the dopamine his anger had unleashed into his system. All he could see now was Julia begging him for something. The vision in his mind’s eye distracted him from the sound of footsteps on the walkway behind him.
“Let her go!” another Irish voice shouted. Claymore whipped around only to be clobbered in the jaw by a fist of surprising strength. Before he could recover, another blow aimed at his knee jostled him, but was dulled by the protective pad he had on. He raised his sword to strike, but it caught in the railing before his attacker grabbed his throat and sword hand, twisting his wrist and crushing his larynx at the same time. Claymore dropped the sword and shoved his assailant, the man from the sleep chamber, into the wall. The man kicked off the wall and sent the two tumbling over the railing.
Claymore had hoped luck would be on his side, but he instead landed first, cushioning the impact for the smaller man. Although the shock of it hardly registered, he still felt his hands go limp. His attacker kicked off of him, knocking air from his lungs. Claymore rolled onto his stomach and pushed up, trying to get to his feet as he watched the man snatch up his dulled sword from the ground. It was too huge for him, looking suitably preposterous being hefted by the Irishman… until he jammed the sword into a thick cable by a recently abandoned sleep chamber.
Freezing air gushed from the mechanical artery, frosting over the blade as Overseer droned overhead. “Warning: critical coolant pressure loss for sleep chamber 127-00XF in D-Wing.” The villain turned to Claymore and brought the sword down, hard, against the floor. The frozen blade shattered, halving its length and giving it a set of wicked-looking spikes on the end.
“Now, then,” the man said, looking at his handiwork. “I’m going to teach you to pick on someone your own size.”
Claymore reached up and took hold of his backup weapon, the very real sword that was his namesake. He smiled as he brandished it. “Gonna be hard to teach when I cut your head off.”
They launched at each other, darting and parrying their blows deftly. The clang of metal was loud and exhilarating, each pronounced metallic twang sending shocks through Claymore’s system. The smaller man with his doctored weapon was much faster than he was, more suited to prolonged combat by taking quick jabs with his free hand whenever the blades would lock together. Despite his great strength, Claymore found he needed to hold his sword two-handed to keep up with his opponent, making him a clumsier combatant than he had ever anticipated.
Up to this point, his sword had been a gimmick, more a psychological deterrent than a weapon.
Presented with a real sword fight, it only took a minute to realize he was going to lose.
Defending against a much faster opponent was tiring him out, contorting him to odd angles one moment to deflect a jab only to be met with a fist across his face. It didn’t help that his opponent kept switching hands and styles with his weapon, flitting about like a hummingbird with attention deficit disorder.
Claymore saw an opening and swept his sword low, but didn’t anticipate the man barrel rolling over the sweep. Thanks to the sword’s weight, he had no choice but to carrying through the attack. The smaller man took advantage of that fact and kicked out the back of the hero’s knee. Claymore hit the floor, then felt the hot sting of the blade in his left arm. “Touché!” the swordsman yelled in triumph. Another sharp pain in his right arm meant the villain decided to even out the wounds. “Touché!” he cried again.
The abuse was almost too much. The world floated around him chaotically and he wished, deep down, that he had much faster healing potential than he already did. He turned, still on one knee, only to be greeted by the other man’s feet thrust into his head as he descended from a fall into a dual kick. “Boom!” the man shouted.
He tasted blood as he went sprawling to the floor. The ceiling seemed to be collapsing on him, then retreating a moment later. Claymore, for the first time in years, felt violently ill. He rolled onto his stomach and spat up thick blood from his shattered lip.
“I’d suggest staying down, boyo,” the Irishman warned. “No one bests Dervish.”
Claymore’s arms buckled and he face-planted. Rolling onto his back, he concentrated on where he was, trying to find some way to remain focused on the situation. He had lost… to a Bestowed who couldn’t even use his abilities… it was humiliating.
Suddenly, he felt hot. Prickly. His vision went blurry, but he soon blinked it away. It was a familiar sensation… he had felt it what seemed like ages ago, but he couldn’t quite place it. Not that it mattered. He rolled back onto his stomach.
“This doesn’t concern you, sirs. That man attacked us first,” the man said. Others must have found them, either villain or hero, converging on the sound of the fight. He was mortified. The word of his failure would spread quickly, reducing him to a laughing stock.
Why aren’t you fuckers talking? he thought bitterly, pushing himself to his knees.
“S… stop him…” Claymore muttered, hoping that it was a group of Enforcers who had stumbled upon them, if only to prevent the embarrassment from getting worse.
There was no response. He could hear Dervish spit, but the sudden heat was making his head hurt intensely, like someone with a crowbar was trying to pry their way into his brain. Claymore heard someone shuffling toward him. “What are you doing? He’s down…” came the Irish lilt again, seeming oddly concerned. He felt something heavy crack down on his head, and the world seemed to tear into two layers, fighting to reconvene.
It was instinctive more than anything else. Claymore grabbed the handle of his sword tightly, hefting it up off the floor and driving it upwards. The blade struck home and sunk, deeply, into the vest and chest of an Enforcer lieutenant. The world seemed painfully clear as Claymore’s ally rag-dolled on the blade, sliding downward until resistance made him stop. The hero realized with horror that he still held the blade’
s grip and he let go, the Enforcer collapsing to the floor.
His eyes were wide, and he looked down at his hands, spotted with stray droplets of blood. Claymore looked toward Dervish, himself aghast. Beyond him, a ring of five Enforcers stood, their rifles pointing limply at the floor. “What the fuck did you do, boyo?” Dervish asked, dropping his broken blade with a clatter.
“It… it was… I thought he was…”
“A villain?” Dervish was wavering with fear and rage. “You haul us in here…”
“Rrrrrrrrr…” one of the Enforcers growled hungrily.
“… Against our will and imprison us…”
“…ooooooo…” the Enforcer continued to gurgle. They raised their rifles in unison, Claymore trying to keep an eye on them and the villain at the same time.
“… And then try to kill us?” Dervish knelt to the floor and grabbed the broken sword again. “Vigilante!”
The word was damning, but so too was the word that the Enforcer just finished: “…gue.”
“No!” Claymore shouted, twisting to the side as Dervish rushed him. In the moment before he squeezed his lids shut, he saw the girl, the girl who started it all, running toward them. The sudden rifle reports beat Dervish to ending Claymore’s life. He never expected to be brought down in a hail of bullets, but the cool air spreading over him chilled him suddenly, confirming his fate. Come to think of it, he never really expected to ever die, actually. It was something that was supposed to happen to other people, and now it…
“Are you alright, sir?” a feminine voice asked. Claymore moved his hand from his face. The Enforcer kneeling in front of him put a hand on his shoulder. “You took a pretty sound beating.”
“What are you…” He looked down. Dervish lay face-down in a spreading pool of blood, riddled with bullet holes. Disbelief made his stomach twist in knots, similar to the heat wave which seemed to have suddenly left the building. Claymore looked at the Enforcer he had killed, another of the uniformed unit removing the assault mask, revealing a pallid face staring upwards at nothing. The sight made Claymore retch.
The female Enforcer patted him on the back. “Hey… it isn’t easy to stare death in the face. You held him off while we were trying to break free of his dance-hold.” She gestured with her head over to the group of four remaining Enforcers. “Spencer, Delury, Medina and Rodriguez. I’m Corporal Austin.”
Claymore looked at her, wiping specks of spittle from his chin. “What?” He became aware of gunfire down the hall, the fight to regain control of the Fort continuing out of sight.
He wished he could have seen her eyes, but only the tinted glass of the assault mask stared back. “It’s powerful stuff, let me tell you. Johnson was the first to break free. He tried to help you when you were down…” She gestured to the corpse. “Never stood a chance, it seems.”
Nothing makes sense… and why is she saying this? It didn’t go down like that. This… this makes no fucking sense!
Then he saw her… the red-haired girl. Her hands covered her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was right there, approaching Dervish’s body in front of five Enforcers. Not a single one reacted as the girl collapsed on his body and wept, deep, bitter tears.
The Enforcer prodded the corpse. “He’s not getting up, sir. You pumped him so full of lead he could be strip mined.” She looked back at her fallen comrade. “Serves the bastard right.” She offered Claymore her hand.
He took it and she yanked him upright. “I didn’t…”
“Picked up Johnson’s gun and shot the guy right in the back, before he could get to the rest of us,” she said. He looked at his feet, finding no evidence of this supposed attack. No spent casings, no discarded rifle. It was bizarre, impossible… but she was so insistent… even though Johnson’s weapon was at the dead Enforcer’s feet. She cocked her head. “Are you alright? Did he hit your head?” She reached for the side of his head, and he instinctively batted her hand away.
“I’m fine.” He knelt down to pick up his sword. My eyes are playing tricks on me… or something. He shook his head. That didn’t matter. I have a job to do. “We need to meet up with the others. We’ve fallen too far behind.”
“Yes, sir.” She signaled to the others to form up as Claymore marched forward.
The intercom hissed to life. “This is Overseer. A rogue element has been confirmed in a hero casualty. Lethal force has now been authorized.”
Claymore looked over his shoulder. The girl was crying, her clothing covered in her father’s blood. She was practically lying in the gore, helpless and agonized. He hoped against hope that she was a figment of his imagination. Otherwise a vestigial emotion, an emotion he had fought hard to destroy, threatened to overtake him.
He inhaled deeply, shutting his eyes and turning toward where more villains awaited. More villains who needed to be stopped… permanently. “You heard Overseer!” he called out. He lifted his sword into the air. “Cry havoc!” he shouted, being met with a wave of ‘hu-ah’s’ as he pointed his sword forward. “Let slip the dogs of war!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
COUNTDOWN
ARTHUR IMMEDIATELY REGRETTED THE RATIONALE he had for putting the security center on a big pole in the center of the base as another blast from the outside rocked the Panopticon. “We lost the feed!” Zombress shouted behind him as he tapped away at a console.
“Mollie will try to get it back up, we just need to buy her time!” he shouted, not sure if he was even telling the truth. Mollie’s primary concern was to reopen the doors and possibly re-activate the defenses. Since that was already a practical impossibility thanks to Dr. Maelstrom’s introduction of Overseer, he doubted that she cared much about the camera feeds.
Talia ran past him to another console as the Overseer chimed in his calm voice, “This is Overseer. Tampering with the security system and the microphones in the Panopticon is considered a class two offense and will be dealt with accordingly.”
“Is there a way we can shut that guy up?” Catalina shouted from the observation sphere as another explosion bucked the tower. “Get back!” she shouted before a gunshot erupted from her location. The heroes flitting around outside were being repelled by repeated rubber bullet rounds. At least Arthur hoped she had switched back to rubber bullets… she had definitely displayed enough bloodlust to make him worry about her choice in ammunition after killing Maelstrom. “We rip out his ears but let the douchebag still talk!” she barked, finishing her thought with a laugh.
“How are we doing, Talia?” Arthur asked, waiting for the terminal he was working at to lock him out of the system.
“Terminals three and four are unlocked. He locked down six the moment it was up,” she said breathlessly. She was sweating and even paler than normal. Arthur turned back to his computer just as it froze up on him.
“This is Overseer…”
“Shut up!” Catalina shouted with a gunshot exclamation point.
“… Massive security breaches in A-Wing require an increase of Enforcer presence immediately. Thank you.”
Arthur ran to terminal four, only to have it lock down before he could get in. He diverted his path to the still-operational terminal three and hammered at the keyboard. “Terminal four is dead again, Talia!”
“A little busy!” she shouted in response as she reverse-aged another terminal.
Their work was all just a distraction, an effort to keep Overseer busy with massive, invasive reprogramming which made little if any sense; it just needed to look legitimate enough to be a threat. Meanwhile, Mollie was inside the system somewhere, carefully changing the locks to the various wings and, most importantly, to the front gate. There was no point in staying here to die. They had witnesses to the events surrounding his father’s death, so maybe they could leverage something out of it… but, owing to the political climate, probably not.
Catalina aimed her semi-automatic rifle and fired a round through the glass at the bluish streak whipping by her, the penetrating power
of the gun just strong enough to punch a hole through the reinforced glass after it had been weakened by blasts of fire and ice from the pair of elemental twins out there. The support structures were groaning as another fireball was launched, this time at her. She dove forward as the fire licked the side of the glass, tongues of flame darting through the bullet holes.
From her prone position, she looked at her shoulder and chuffed in disgust. The charred clothing sent up almost unnoticeable wisps of smoke. She got to her feet. “You’re going to pay for that,” she muttered, mostly to herself. The two outside, Jeremy and Gerry Hollander, were the outstandingly unimaginatively named Spark and Frost, and they were a complete and utter pain in the ass. Even if Catalina had not been so annoyed at their continued effort to break in, the innumerable close calls she had in her arms-dealing with those two would have been more than enough to want to punch holes in their heads.
The observation area rocked, nearly throwing her off balance. It wasn’t like the twins’ attacks… it was something else. She anticipated the next blow, but it still unsteadied her. She ran around the perimeter, trying to time her steps so she wouldn’t lose her footing when the tower shifted underfoot. She found the source: Tree Frog, in his garish, lime green outfit and helmet complete with bugging orange eye-spots, clung to the top of the observation deck, crouching against the window as though it was the most natural spot in the world for a person to be. He reared back and planted a fist in the center of a safety-glass panel, sending a wave of cracks spider-webbing out from the impact point.
Catalina aimed her rifle at him. Tree Frog responded by pulling his fist back for another blow. Before she could pull the trigger, a fireball burst on the outside of the glass, temporarily blinding her as heat crashed over her body. “I am getting so sick of this!” she screamed, readjusting her sights. No doubt other fliers were hanging back, letting the candidates most likely to penetrate the sphere do the heavy lifting.
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